[Empire Army 01] - Reiksguard

by Richard Williams - (ebook by Undead)

  Though his attack had turned to disaster, the elector count was not slow to react. His army needed their leader and he would not disappoint them. He seized his personal standard and galloped forwards, urging his mount as fast as it could go down the slippery slope. He held his banner high and bellowed as he went, “Nordland! Nordland! To me! Rally!”

  His men responded and hurried towards him. The day had been lost. Nordland’s advantage in numbers, which had been slight even before, had been stripped from him in the mud-pits before the shield wall. However, if the Skaelings relented, held back in their position, then Nordland could at least reorder his regiments and retreat in good order back to Hargendorf. The Skaelings, however, had no intention of allowing their foe the time they needed. Their brutal youngbloods were already running up behind the Nordlanders, slicing at exposed backs, but veering away where bands of soldiers had stopped and were making a stand. Of more concern, Helborg could see that the heavily armoured warriors were now crossing the bog and forming up on the bank. They had stripped the long ship beams from their war-altar and had laid those across the unsafe ground. Hundreds of them had already made the near side and were starting to stalk up the hill, dispatching the enemy wounded as they passed. If this juggernaut reached the Empire’s line before it had reformed, Helborg doubted the shaken Nordlanders would rally a second time.

  As Helborg raised his arm he knew all his brothers’ eyes were upon him, waiting to be released.

  “Reiksguard!” he called. “To battle!”

  As one, the Reiksguard knights spurred their mounts to a trot, heading straight at the Skaeling warriors. The line was packed so tightly that the flanks of each horse pressed against its neighbour’s. Helborg had drilled them to precision, and despite the broken ground each brother adjusted his pace instinctively to keep the line unbroken. The rumble of the hooves striking dirt rolled down the slope, and each and every warrior, whether Nordlander or Skaeling, knew what was coming. The Empire soldiers who had fallen back across the Reiksguard’s path needed no further prompting and scurried out of the way. The Skaelings followed suit, their lust for death and battle insufficient to face down the tonnes of man, beast and metal bearing towards them.

  For a split-second, Helborg saw the warriors at the bottom of the slope hesitate, some turning to retreat behind the relative safety of the bog and their shield wall. But then one of their chieftains stepped forwards, arms encased in long bladed gauntlets shaped as the claws of a crab. He shouted for his men to hold their ground. They brought up their shields, readying another wall.

  Helborg gave the order and the Reiksguard knights broke into a canter. The rumble of the hooves grew into a storm, and everyone on the battlefield who was not engaged in mortal combat turned to watch the Reiksguard’s charge.

  The Reiksguard’s first line was aimed straight at the centre of the new shield wall. Helborg nudged his steed with his heels to turn him a degree to the left, confident that the correction would be fed up and down the line. He was not ashamed to admit that the first time he had been a part of a charge of the Reiksguard knights he had felt fear, but now he could only feel the eagerness, the excitement, the power flowing through his brothers and into him. This new Emperor Karl Franz said his dearest wish was an Empire at an honourable peace, and as the Emperor wishes so does the Reiksguard; but in Sigmar’s name Kurt Helborg could not deny that he loved war.

  Scant yards away, Helborg yelled his final command; the Reiksguard dropped their lance points and shot forwards into a gallop. This was the moment where they showed their enemy the fate that awaited them. The Skaelings were braced for the impact; they knew it would hurt, but their line would hold and then, once they had stopped the horses, they could bring down the knights from their saddles and slaughter them. They knew this in their minds; but as they saw the lance points lower, their spirits quailed and, on animal instinct, they leant back, off-balance.

  The Reiksguard struck. The force of his lance’s impact hammered Helborg back in the saddle. He twisted, held the lance for a split-second to ensure it penetrated and then released. The years of drill made his actions automatic. As his hand released the lance’s grip, it went straight to his sword’s hilt and pulled it from its scabbard. He drew back and high to avoid the brother beside him, then arced around and cut down like the sail of a windmill. First to his right, then to his left, catching any foe that came close. Helborg did not need to think; his body did what it had been trained to do. But Helborg’s thoughts raced; while his body fought, his mind seized every sound, every sight it could to determine if their charge had been a success. How many brothers had fallen? Had the shield wall broken? Were the Reiksguard winning? Should they run? He could not tell and so his body fought on.

  His steed butted forwards, burying the spikes on its champron into a howling face. Helborg stabbed down at another who was aiming a cut at his horse’s unarmoured legs. Helborg felt a blow to his hip on the other side, but ignored it and stabbed down again. His armour would hold, but he would not survive if his mount was crippled. Though the Skaeling line was a hair’s breadth from collapse, they had held and were pushing back. The knights had been pushed apart so that the enemy could get in between and swarm them down. Blows from maces and axes pounded on the knights’ armour, chains and ropes sought to tangle the warhorses’ legs. Having withstood the initial shock, barely, the enemy’s numbers were beginning to tell.

  And then the Reiksguard’s second wave hit. Helborg was near jolted from his saddle again as his brothers slammed in, filling the spaces that had formed between the first wave and knocking the Skaelings down the hill. Within an instant, the wall broke and their warriors scrabbled down the bank still littered with Nordlander dead. Helborg called his knights to a halt. As much as he wished it, he knew he could not pursue the Skaelings into the bog. Already the main body of the Skaeling tribe were making crossings on either flank, and his knights, stood still, could not hold the centre. The day had been lost, but the Empire’s honour had not been surrendered.

  There was still much to do, and the Reiksguard spurred away from the top of the bank before they could be trapped there. Helborg ordered his squadrons to the left and to the right, to break up the skirmishes being fought there and allow the Nordlanders to disengage. Helborg looked up the hill. The elector count was still there, readying to lead the next assault himself. Helborg cursed.

  “You cannot attack again!” he said as he rode up to the elector count. “You must hold them at Hargendorf.”

  “You’ve done well, Reiklander,” Nordland said, not even turning around. “I don’t deny it. You’ve given us our chance and now we can turn the tide.”

  Helborg hastily dismounted and strode over to the man. Nordland’s bodyguards closed ranks and kept the bloodied Reiksguard knight a yard back from their lord.

  “If you are killed here today,” Helborg insisted, “then it will throw the defence of the north into disarray. I cannot allow you to attack!”

  “Who commands Nordland’s army? Some Reiklander or—”

  “Just look!” Helborg, in frustration, pointed down at the dark mass of Skaelings crawling up the slope, whooping and chanting in victory.

  Nordland looked, and then gasped.

  “My boy…” he whispered.

  Helborg followed his gaze.

  A dozen richly dressed horsemen were charging down the slope on the left at the advancing Skaeling flank. They were the young nobles that Helborg had seen early that morning, and Nordland’s reaction left him without a doubt that it was the elector count’s son at their head. They whooped as the first few Skaelings they encountered dived out of their way, and rode further in, searching for kills. The Skaeling flank halted when the nobles struck, almost as though bemused by the foolish valiance of such an unsupported attack. And then the Skaelings swarmed. For a moment, Helborg saw the nobles realise their predicament, rein in their mounts and try to turn back, and then the dark horde swallowed them up.

  As his son’s mount
fell, Nordland cried again and made for his horse. Helborg held him back and this time the elector count’s bodyguards did not stop him. Helborg looked for his Reiksguard brothers, but they were dispersed, struggling all across the field to keep the Skaelings back. Then one of the bodyguards shouted. Helborg looked: a single Reiksguard knight had broken away from his squadron and had plunged into the horde, carving his way through Norscan warriors surrounding the site where Nordland’s son had fallen. It was one man against a hundred; it was suicide.

  Then suddenly Helborg saw Griesmeyer break away and gallop towards the lone knight. As Griesmeyer charged, he called the knight’s name.

  “Reinhardt!”

  CHAPTER ONE

  DELMAR

  The Reinhardt estate, Western Reikland

  Spring 2522 IC

  “Reinhardt! To your right!”

  Heeding the warning, Delmar von Reinhardt flattened himself in the saddle. The beastman’s clumsy swing sailed over Delmar’s head. The young nobleman slashed back, cutting open the beastman’s head. Black blood gushed from behind its horns as it staggered and then fell into the undergrowth.

  Delmar did not look back. He did not dare. Riding fast this deep into the woods, he had far greater chance of being unseated by a low-hanging branch or crashing into a bloodhedge than being struck by an enemy’s weapon. He had to keep riding, keep the exhausted beastkin from escaping further into the woods. None of them could be allowed to escape.

  The forest burned with the red light of the setting sun, and Delmar caught glimpses of his men amongst the trees as they chased down the survivors of the beastkin tribe. Each band blew their horns to mark their positions, but they had no breath spare to shout oaths or curses at their enemy. Delmar too was tired; his horse, Heinrich, was drenched in sweat, but Delmar urged him on all the harder. Every last one of these killers had to be brought down. If not, then other villages would pay the same price as Edenburg.

  Another beastman burst from a thicket and blundered into Delmar’s path. There was no chance to avoid it and Heinrich crashed forwards, knocking the creature to the ground. Delmar felt Heinrich drop away beneath him, pitching him forwards, almost out of the saddle. Delmar’s heart leapt into his throat. He threw himself hard to the other side and Heinrich managed to catch his footing and stumble back up.

  Delmar reined Heinrich in and instantly slid down from the saddle. His legs felt like water, but they still obeyed his commands. Sword ready, he trod carefully back over the vines and rotten logs to where the beastman had fallen. It had not moved.

  This one was smaller than the rest, almost human in its looks. It was pale and thin, with sunken eyes and wispy hair. Its chest was a mass of spear-cuts. It was still alive, but only barely. Its breathing was shallow, rasping, and the blood oozed from its wounds. Death seemed close, but Delmar knew these mutant creatures were tough. With the luck of its unholy gods it might just heal, escape, and then return the stronger to slaughter again.

  Delmar did not hesitate. A single blow severed the beast’s head from its body. The dead eyes bulged for a moment and then were still. Delmar turned away to see the alderman of Edenburg and his hunting band riding up behind him, bloodied boar-spears in their hands.

  “My thanks for your warning, alderman.” Delmar’s voice remained steady, despite his fatigue. That was good.

  “I would only wish I could have kept up with you better,” the alderman replied. “You ride these woods faster than I could a level field.”

  “Heinrich is a good steed,” Delmar replied, stroking his horse’s neck to calm him.

  The horns blew again around them. Delmar silently gritted his teeth and hauled himself back into the saddle.

  “My lord,” the alderman protested, “you have been riding a night and a day. The foe is beaten. You have done enough.”

  Delmar turned back to the alderman. His blue eyes were bright with exhaustion, but the determination in his face was the only reply he needed to give. The alderman recognised the look; it was that same one his father had.

  Delmar tapped Heinrich’s flanks with his heels and, once more, the two of them chased after the horns.

  The alderman did not see Delmar again until the next morning. At some time in the night, Delmar had returned to the remains of Edenburg and collapsed next to the village’s boundary wall. The alderman would not have seen him hidden there, but Heinrich still remained over him, standing sentinel.

  Delmar had not even lain himself out properly. He had slept sitting, his back against the wall, his blood-blackened sword still in his hand. The alderman thought it prudent to wake him from outside its reach. Delmar struggled back to consciousness; he instinctively tried to rise and clattered back down. The alderman handed him a gourd of water then sat down beside him.

  “I’ve sent word back to your mother and your grandfather that you are safe.”

  Delmar, still drowsy, nodded his thanks as he took the gourd.

  “Sigmar be praised,” the alderman said. “To Edenburg,” he toasted.

  Delmar took a swig from the gourd, then splashed the rest over his face, slicking his brown hair back from his eyes. He blinked the water away and then stared at the burned-out houses.

  “Praise Sigmar indeed,” Delmar replied wearily. The villagers of Edenburg were already awake, sifting through the remains of their homes. As hard as the battle had been the day before, they would have to work harder today if they wished to sleep beneath a roof by nightfall.

  “I learnt long ago,” the alderman said, “that a village is not in its structures, but in its people. And those we have saved. You have saved, my lord.”

  Before them, the bell of Edenburg’s small temple of Sigmar began to ring. It tolled for the dead.

  The beastman tribe had come down from the mountains in the depths of the last winter; it had been another blow to a province already reeling from the failed harvest the summer before and teetering on the brink of famine. The state troops had been called away for the war in the north, and so there were no soldiers to oppose them. The beastkin journeyed east, attacking all in their path, slaughtering the adults, carrying off children and stealing precious livestock supplies. If villagers stood they were killed, if they ran they were chased down, if they hid the tribe burned them out of their refuges. The beastmen killed for food and they killed for sport. But then they had reached Edenburg.

  “We were fortunate,” Delmar replied. “It could have been far worse.”

  The beastmen had struck the night before. The villagers of Edenburg barricaded themselves within the temple of Sigmar and rang its bell to signal their distress. While some of the beastmen tried to batter their way in, the rest ran wild through the streets. They had little use for gold, but snatched food or flesh of any kind. Their favoured target was always a village’s inn, for the stores it held and for the drink these degenerates craved.

  They broke open the cellar of the inn of Edenburg expecting to find a few casks of mead and ale. But they were to be surprised. The cellar held whole vats of wine, racks of spirits, enough not just for a village, but for a city. The word of this discovery quickly spread amongst them and the streets emptied as more of the beastmen hurried to take their share of this treasure.

  “Fortune, my lord,” the alderman gently admonished Delmar, “had a great deal of help on this occasion.”

  In the temple, the villagers had heard the battering against their barricades slow, and then stop altogether.

  Fearing a trap, they stayed still until the sun rose and they could make sure that the beastmen had gone.

  But the beastmen had not gone. Beyond all restraint, they had drunk what they had found in a single night. The first villagers who emerged found Edenburg littered with these monsters prostrate in the streets. And in the distance, from all directions, came the militias, every able man from every neighbouring town. With them was Delmar von Reinhardt. Delmar, who had ordered every last bottle to be taken from the cellars of the Reinhardt estate and planted in Edenburg,
and who had now ridden all night from village to village to bring the militias to arms.

  The beastmen had awoken then and tried to stagger back to the cooling shade of their forests, their once-fearsome tribe reduced to a mewling rabble. They had been caught against the cliffs of the Grotenfel, and there they had been destroyed.

  “I do not know what it cost you, my lord. But I take Verena’s oath that we shall repay you.”

  Had the alderman not sounded so serious, Delmar might have laughed. Those wines and spirits had been everything from his family’s cellars. The collection had taken them generations to build up and, beside the estate itself, it had been quite the most valuable thing that his father had left him. It had been his reserve, his last gasp, to sustain the family should their finances grow dire. This one village alderman could not repay it.

  “Save your coppers, alderman. Whatever value others placed upon it, this was its true value for me. Our villagers are safe again, for a few years at least. And what has greater value than that?”

  “We shall find a way, my lord,” the alderman replied stiffly, for lord or not, no man doubted that he might make good his bond.

  Suddenly, the villagers began to stir from the ashes of their homes. For a moment, Delmar thought the foe might have returned, but the villagers were excited, not fearful. He rose to follow them.